Cutting a Deal
by grainweevil
Summary: Gene and Alex strike a deal with unexpected results. Rated T for Gene's encyclopedic knowledge of Bad Words.
1. Cutting a dash

**Disclaimer:** I don't own 'em, Kudos does. Or maybe the Beeb. Possibly they've even let the boys at Monastic retain some ownership. Dunno. But they're not mine.

**A/N:** I'm not at home to the Angst Bunny, so this Gene is fractionally more in touch with his happier, carefree LoM self. Trumper's did have a Mr Park and a Mr Conway who would have been there in the 80s, but the names are the only conscious similarity. Dedicated to the ladies in the Naughty Corner at TRA and DY, who wrote about a very different Alex.

A thousand thanks to Lucida Bright for encouragement, being a superb Beta and threatening dire consequences unless I posted it. If you like it, I'll take the credit. If you don't, she's having the blame...

xxxx

**1. Cutting a Dash**

Gene Hunt was not a happy man.

Some people have been described as lighting up a room by their mere presence. At the moment, Alex thought, the only hope Gene had of lighting up a room was if he put a match to it. The scowl was intractable, the folded arms impenetrable.

"If this joker doesn't get a bloody move on I'll have him for wasting police time," he muttered.

"He's hardly to blame for the traffic, Gene," she replied, reasonably.

On reflection, being reasonable was probably a mistake. He really didn't want to hear reason. He wanted to moan and complain and have a flaming row. Again. Most of all he wanted her to get so fed up with him that she wouldn't make him do this. _Dream on, Mr Hunt. My fantasy, my rules._

"Should've used the Quattro. Knew we should've."

Another grumble from her right.

"And spent an hour trying to find somewhere to park it?"

"Police officer," he said. "Can park it anywhere I like. Police business."

"Gene! In no way can this be described as police business."

"Why not? I'm a police officer. You're a police officer. Police business."

Gene sniffed. _Q E Bloody D._

"Oh for..." Alex rolled her eyes and deliberately stared out of the taxi window, ignoring him until they reached Curzon Street.

"Here you go, mate," said the taxi driver, calmly cutting up a cyclist as he drew up the black cab at number nine. "Heh heh, close shave there, eh? Gettit? Close..." He caught Gene's expression in the rearview mirror and stopped abruptly.

They got out, Gene turning to pay the fare and, of course, complaining about it. Alex already looking towards their target; an old fashioned shop front. To the right, a wide Georgian style door; to the left a window display of razors, badger-hair shaving brushes, shaving mugs and so forth. The sort of shop front to send an American tourist into paroxysms of delight. Above the shop, simple brass letters discretely advised passers-by that it was the premises of G F Trumper. The window itself was more informative: Hairdresser. By Appointment. Gentleman's Hairdresser - in case you hadn't got that point the first time, thought Alex, with a smile. Indeed it seemed to bear repeating again at the bottom, as she read: Gent's Hairdresser and Perfu... _Oh shit, I'd forgotten that._

Gene saw where she was looking and turned to get straight back in the cab.

"Gene, don't you dare!" She grabbed his arm and hauled him back onto the pavement.

"Perfume? Gent's Hairdresser and bloody _Perfumers_? No."

"Gene, it's a barber's. That's all. Just a really good..."

"NO!"

"Trumper's is world famous. You'll enjoy it. Trust..."

"I am _not_ a fairy. No."

"Gene, you're not reneging on our agreement?"

"Wot?"

"Are you welching on the deal?" She translated, head at its cockiest angle, eyebrow raised to its most challenging level. This was always going to be the tricky part and she was prepared to play dirty.

"No!" Gene dragged his hand through his hair in frustration. _Gene Hunt did not go back on a deal. But this? This was... Oh God, what if it got back to the station?_

"No. I'm not going back on the deal. _This_ was never part of the deal." He tried to look at his most bullish and confident, jabbing his finger towards her to emphasise the point. Privately he wondered how long it would take her to argue him round.

"It's a shave, Gene. By a professional. It's like, er... getting the Quattro waxed."

"Wax?" He spluttered. "I'm not getting bloody waxed!"

"Make you feel like a million dollars, trust me." Alex put on the most winning smile she could manage and even fluttered her eyelashes. _Honestly. All that education and it's come to this_, she thought in exasperation. _That was the carrot, now the stick._ "Of course, if you want to forget the whole thing..."

"Come on then. Let's get this ridiculous farce over with, " he sighed, resigned._ That didn't take long._

So saying, Gene Hunt, black coat tails billowing and Alex scurrying in his wake, strode into the premises of Geo. F. Trumper, Gentleman's Hairdresser, as if it had been all his own idea in the first place.

xxxx

"Your coat, Mr Hunt? Our Mr Conway, Mr Hunt." The neat, precise, waistcoated gentleman who'd gathered Gene up from the shop floor and taken him downstairs handed his charge over to an equally neat, precise, and waistcoated gentleman, then neatly and precisely withdrew.

"Thank you, Mr Park. Would you take a seat, Mr Hunt?"

Gene was suffering from an acute overdose of mahogany. It was everywhere he looked; gleaming and varnished. Where there wasn't wood, there was glass. Glass and mahogany display cabinets showed a bewildering display of barbering-related equipment in the shop; mahogany stairs had brought him to the bowels of this ridiculous place; mahogany panelling stared at him from the walls; and now he was being ushered into one of a number of small booths, three sides of each were, of course, made of mahogany.

Gene nodded mutely, allowed his coat to be removed and stumbled into the barber's chair. Leather and, he hazarded a guess, mahogany.

Mr Conway closed the velvet curtain forming the fourth wall of the booth and eyed his latest customer. Mr Conway was 66 years old and would, had he but known it, still be there at 86. He'd seen it all. This one could prove irascible. Mr Conway was not concerned; an irascible Duke might have concerned him. An irascible Mancunian policeman was just a novelty in the tedium of the day. Mr Conway adjusted the chair with practiced ease, and Gene found himself staring at the ceiling. To his surprise, it wasn't mahogany.

xxxx

"Will you be waiting, madam?" Mr Park had returned to the shop at street level to find Alex was still there, wandering about, taking in the experience. Mr Park, as a matter of principle, did not approve of ladies in the shop. It affected the ambience. However, Mr Park found himself in something of a dilemma in this case. Ladies of Alex's appearance could be said to improve the ambience considerably.

She looked up with a smile. "D'you know I had no idea you could even buy an ivory nail brush?" She said, in reference to the display in front of her.

"Trumper's," said Mr Park, proudly, "has _everything_ required for the well-groomed gentleman."

"So I see."

"Madam?"

"What? Oh no, I won't be waiting. That is... erm..." Alex bit her lower lip, swiveled one heel awkwardly and wondered exactly how to word this. "Mr Hunt. He can be a little, er..."

"We are used to all types of gentleman, madam. Mr Conway is well able to deal with any slight..._irascibility_ on your husband's part," Mr Park reassured her. In Trumper's vocabulary, gentlemen were never described as bad tempered, no matter how great the provocation.

"Oh, he's not my husband!"

"Forgive me, madam. An assumption on my part. We often find with the more reluctant client it's the power behind the throne as it were..." Mr Park trailed off, embarrassed.

Alex smiled in amused understanding. Mr Park, relieved, also smiled. They were _en rapport._

"Can I leave a message for him, Mr... Park?"

"Monty Park, madam. Of course, madam. A pleasure." Mr Park oozed charm and bowed Alex over to the cashier to leave a message for Mr Hunt.

xxxx

Below their feet, Mr Hunt, irascible gentleman, was being slowly suffocated.

_What the bloody hell am I doing here?_ He wondered. _Of all the sissy, soft, Southern, fairy, poofter..._ It was no good, Gene couldn't find words to adequately express the depths to which he had lowered himself. _The Manc Lion, having a bloody facial._

Mr Conway silently removed the hot towel that had been folded around Gene's face for the last five minutes. Mr Conway, unless the gentleman indicated otherwise, always retained a neat and precise silence. Even when he started to apply the moisturiser to Gene's face, he remained calm despite Gene's reaction.

"What the hell are you putting on my face, you hairdressing Mary?!"

"An unscented er... cream, sir. Naturally it will all be removed during the shaving process," he soothed. Mr Conway didn't need to be a detective to see that the gentleman wasn't one to favour skin care; some little economy with the truth was going to be necessary.

"Cream," muttered Gene. "What am I? A banana split?" But he stayed put. The hot towel really had been remarkably relaxing.

Mr Conway whipped up a mass of rich lather with brush and shaving mug and proceeded to apply it with neatness and precision to Gene's face; Gene thought it smelt slightly of coconut. He was still trying to decide how in hell's name he was going to explain away smelling like a festering coconut to the rest of CID when he realised what Mr Conway proposed to shave him with.

"A cut throat?!" Gene spluttered, flecks of lather flying from his lips.

"A straight razor, sir? Yes, sir. It provides us with the best control and the most effective shave."

"Yes, but..." The idea of someone holding a very sharp blade to his face bothered Gene.

"Forgive the pun, sir, given your profession, but I won't 'nick' you, sir." Mr Conway rocked with silent mirth.

Gene glowered and indicated that Mr Conway should proceed. Carefully.

xxxx

Alex folded the note and turned to hand it to the ever-attentive Mr Park.

"Tell me, Mr Park, where would I find the nearest place to hire a set of tails? White tie, the works."

Mr Park broke the professional habit of a lifetime and allowed his right eyebrow to crawl up his forehead like a particularly surprised caterpillar. His head inclined slightly towards the stairs. _For him? _ Alex gave an almost imperceptible nod in response. _For him._

"If you don't mind me saying so, madam, you certainly aren't a lady to shirk a challenge, are you?"

xxxx

Mr Conway silently wiped a damp towel across Gene's face and removed the last traces of soap. Gene sighed in satisfaction at his survival and made to get up.

"Oh no, sir. That was merely the first pass."

"Wot?"

"More moistur... _cream_ now, sir. Then the second pass, without lather. Then..."

"Eh? Oh never mind, I don't want to bloody know. Just get a move on."

Gene subsided back into the chair, glowering.

_Remind me again why you're doing this? _

_Because I made a deal, and the Gene Genie does not go back on a deal._

The treacherous little voice in his head scoffed.

_Bollocks. You're doing this in the hopes of getting into your DI's knickers. _

_Am not. _

_Liar._

_Okay. Not JUST that..._

Gene was almost relaxed for the second pass of the razor. This poofter fairy-boy did at least seem to know what he was doing, and it was quite nice to put his feet up and let the world look after itself for a change. He began to doze.

xxxx

"D'you want a hand with that, ma'am?" Shaz darted forward from her desk, seeing Alex staggering in loaded with... well, what? Shaz wasn't the only one in CID to be wondering; she was just the only one to offer help.

"No, no. I'm fine, thanks, Shaz. If you could just open the DCI's door for me?" Alex could only just see Shaz over the armful of items she was carrying.

Closing the door with her foot, Alex managed to hang the suit bag up on the coat stand, albeit wIth difficulty. The other items went on the desk. The virtually empty desk. Not a piece of paperwork to be seen. She sighed, pushed her hair out of her eyes and observed through the door that her own desk was invisible under the drifts of files. Gene Hunt was a pretty fast mover when he wanted to be.

xxxx

_Mmm, that's nice. Could get used to this._

Mr Conway observed the blissful look on the gentleman's face as he carefully removed the second hot towel. A tiny, sadistic part of Mr Conway, that Mr Conway was loathed to admit to having, was rather looking forward to the next bit.

"What the fuck?!"

Gene came too with a start as the cold towel was wrapped round his face.

"Beg your pardon, sir. It closes the pores giving the effect of a closer shave and..."

But Gene was too busy seething with resentment to listen.

After the necessary interval, Mr Conway removed the towel and administered the last application of moisturiser, hoping the gentleman wouldn't recall the small untruth about removing all traces. He needn't of worried; Gene was past caring as the tension in his temples was adroitly massaged out.

"Just one last thing, sir," said Mr Conway, flipping the chair upright again. He produced a hairbrush from his back pocket like a conjurer with a rabbit, a few swift sweeps through the Lion's mane and the cloth about Gene's neck was whipped away.

"All done, sir."

Gene blinked at his reflection. He turned his head this way. Then he turned his head that way. He fingered his chin. He smoothed the palm of his hand down his cheek and then looked round guiltily. Mr Conway was smiling benevolently at him.

"Bloody hell, that's good."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Mr Conway opened the curtain with a flourish and ushered Gene back out into the larger world of mahogany. Gene's gaze fell upon the acres of warm, red wood and thought it a very pleasant sight indeed. He positively bounced up that excellent mahogany staircase, pausing at the top to take sneaky advantage of the mirror there. Mr Park shimmered up with Mr Hunt's coat, draping it about him with due deference.

"The lady, sir," murmured Mr Park, handing him Alex's note. "She left you this communication concerning your attire for this evening. The bill, sir," Mr Park's voice dropped even lower over this delicate matter. "The bill has been taken care of."

Gene looked at him in surprise.

"Wot?"

"Your birthday I believe, sir?" Mr Park could be economical with truths too, when required.

"No it's not. What the...?"

"Perhaps better taken up with the lady in private, sir," soothed Mr Park, with a smile.

Gene sniffed. He got the point; blokes didn't have birds paying for them, but she had, so this was the cover. He pressed a note into Mr Park's hand and nodded downstairs by way of indication that it should be divided between two.

"Very generous, sir. There's a cab outside, sir. If you hurry..."

But Gene had already looked at his watch and gone.

xxxx

Alex walked in to the station in some trepidation. CID should be empty; she'd had to sneak out of her flat past the happy noises of another Friday night at Luigi's. But even so, she'd be bound to meet someone. She had some doubts about her dress. The choice available, c.1982, was by and large, not what she'd have chosen. After lengthy expeditions she'd eventually found a coppery and blue one that, she hoped, looked pretty good. Cost and arm and a leg of course, but it was only imaginary money after all.

Viv was at the front desk and let out a low whistle of appreciation as she came in. She pulled a face.

"Is it okay, Viv? Not too much?"

"You look great, ma'am. This for the big do? The charity one?"

"Yep. Always wanted to go but..." She trailed off. Viv was very understanding, but even he'd have trouble coping with the fact that the price of tickets in 2008 was the stumbling block.

"Does the guv know about the... you know?" Viv waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially.

"Not yet, Viv. A surprise to come."

Viv grinned delightedly and watched her through the doors towards CID. The guv wouldn't know he was born.

xxxx

"How the bloody hell are you supposed to tie this damn thing?"

Gene exploded helplessly at the station bathroom mirror as the trailing material of the white tie again resisted all attempts to turn it into a respectable bow. He wrenched at the top button of the shirt and was at least able to breathe again. He wondered if he'd got time to nip home and pick up his black ready-made one. Sod it; pound to a penny Bolly'd know how to tie the damn thing. Posh birds must have some uses.

He peered round the door to check the coast was clear and then hurried back to CID, praying no-one'd see him.

"My God..."

Gene jumped like a startled hare and then realised it was only Alex. _Only? Christ on a bike._

Gene didn't pretend; he just stared. Which was fine, because Alex was already staring at him. Gene Hunt, in tails, tie hanging loosely round his neck, top button undone, was a sight to behold. She'd thought he would be, although she'd had no intention of telling him so. The exclamation of appreciation had been drawn involuntarily from her lips. A couple of years or so passed until Alex recollected herself.

"Where've you been? It's already half past."

"Wot? I... erm..." Gene cleared his throat and tried to regain the upper hand. "Not getting dressed up then, Bolly?"

Alex gave him a look that would have chilled an ice cube.

"Apparently I'm not the only one," she observed, eyeing his open collar.

"It's this stupid tie." He flicked at it in disgust and pulled a face. "Can't get the frigging thing to stay tied."

"Oh come here. I suppose you expected a ready-made one?" She teased. "Turn round. I can only tie them from the wearer's point of view."

He did as he was told.

"Yeah. Didn't know being posh meant you had to give up all modern inventions. Like the safety razor for instance," he added darkly.

"Did you enjoy it?" Alex was interested to know if Gene had managed to overcome his prejudices. Of course that would be hard to tell, even if he had. He'd never admit it. "You're too tall, I can't reach. Crouch down a bit or something. No wait, hang on..."

"Stupid poncy way of carrying on," he declared, wondering what she was doing. "No wonder the country's being run by a woman if all the toffs are wasting time on stuff like that."

Alex had grabbed a couple of telephone directories, dumped them down on the floor and stepped on to them. She laughed; he might have had a point.

"Right, come here and turn round. That's better."

She was suddenly acutely conscious that they were standing very close together indeed. Immersed in the distinctive array of aromas that she'd come to associate with him, Alex's mind was inclined to wander. Except there was something else. Something... unexpected. A faint smell of... _what? Coconut?! Not bad, whatever it is._ _Just as well he can't see my face. Concentrate on the tie, you fruitcake._

Gene was also concentrating on the tie with an intensity it really didn't deserve. _Whatever you do, son, don't starting thinking about which bits of her you've currently got pressed up against your back. This is going to be a long enough night as it is._ He tried to focus on naming the back four in City's 1976 League Cup winning team.

"Okay," she croaked. "Sorry. Okay. All done."

He turned round, still very close.

"Thanks, Bolls," he said, softly. "And for, you know, the shave. You didn't have to pay for it, you know. Pay you back."

"Oh well, it was a bit outside the strict parameters of the agreement, to be fair."

"Want to translate that into English?"

"Never mind. You're welcome. On the house."

"Am I allowed to ask why?"

"What?"

"The posh shave. Why?"

"Oh." Alex laughed a little nervously. "Just thought it'd help put you in the right frame of mind."

Gene looked his scepticism.

"Really, Gene. Don't you feel... different?"

"Hmm," Gene grunted, noncommittally.

"Do I get to sample the result, as I paid for it?"

Gene looked like a seven horse accumulator had just come up and she flushed.

"I didn't mean..."

"Be my guest, Bolls," he smirked.

Alex had merely intended to run a hand briefly across his cheek, but sod the man. Two could play at that.

Reaching up with her right hand, she idly ran a finger tip down his jaw line to his chin, her eyes intent on its passage over his skin. Paused for a heartbeat. Then swiveled her wrist and slowly dragged the outside of her finger up the opposite side.

"Not one single follicle of stubble," she murmured.

"Not one," he quietly agreed.

Her gaze shifted to his.

"Smooth operator, Mr Hunt?"

"As the baby's proverbial, Inspector."

She leant forward and gently kissed him on the cheek.

"Mmmm, very nice," she breathed into his skin, still leaning in provocatively.

"Do we _have_ to go to this shindig?" He whispered back.

Alex pulled back again and grinned at him, all seduction in her voice instantly gone.

"Yes, we do. A deal's a deal. I do your paperwork for a month; you accompany me to the ball, Cinderella."

Gene sniffed, reluctantly wrenched from the flirtation. He replayed what she'd just said over in his mind.

"Ball? _Ball?! _I'm not bloody dancing! DRAKE!"

But Alex was already out of the door, her delighted laughter echoing down the corridor.


	2. Cutting a rug

**A/N: **You know how I said I'm not at home to the Angst Bunny? Did I mention its slightly more cheerful cousin - the Chinchilla of Frustration - lives in the spare room? No?

Whoops...

xxxx

**2. Cutting a Rug**

Gene Hunt was not a happy man.

He stared into the darkness and allowed his mind to wander over the evening. Not that he was terribly clear on all the details. There was definitely a hotel. Posh place. Lots of glass and chrome; reflections everywhere and a myriad of lights. He'd allowed himself to steered along thickly carpeted halls towards the music.

Gene glowered into the dark. Music. The first thing he'd really been aware of in the room of was the lurking presence of the dance floor. The second thing hadn't made him feel much better.

_I'm dressed like a bloody penguin with a load of flash gits also dressed like penguins._

He must have eaten something at some point, but he couldn't remember what; stupid food you hardly had to open your gob for. The noise had started to make his ears throb; it always reminded him of one of those nature things on the telly. _Sounds like a rock in the middle of bloody nowhere, covered in gannets. _

The thought had briefly lightened his mood, but that had soon passed. _Nothing but sodding champagne to drink either. _He'd been fairly sure he'd spotted someone with a glass of Scotch, but Alex wouldn't let him get away long enough the investigate. So he'd given up trying to think coherently and just went with the flow, nodding as required. Hadn't a clue what he was agreeing to, but then that was nothing new. He hadn't a clue when he agreed to the deal either.

Eventually he nodded at the wrong moment and found himself being led onto the dance floor.

Gene shifted uncomfortably in the dark.

xxxx

"Are you okay?"

Alex peered anxiously at his glazed expression, staring over her shoulder into the middle distance. She saw him make an effort to focus back on her.

"What? Yes. Fine," Gene replied, brusquely. He had one hand on her waist, one holding hers, _her_ other hand on his shoulder, all nice and cosy. In theory he should be enjoying this, even if it did involve dancing. _So why aren't I?_

"Spit it out, Gene. You want to complain about it, I can see you do. Might as well get it over with."

He grunted, reluctant to confirm her diagnosis. But the temptation was too much.

"What am I doing here, Drake? It's hotter than a cheese and tomato toastie, the drink's bloody awful and I've just eaten sodding fish eggs for me tea. And to top it off now I'm bloody _dancing._"

"And dancing surprisingly well for someone who doesn't like it. Where did you learn?"

"Army."

"What?! In the _army_? Is that... usual?"

"Don't ask me. Might have been a whim of the CO for all I know. He was a right queer bastard."

"Bayonet practice followed by the military two-step?" Alex was amused. "I'm surprised you didn't find a way out of it."

"Army's not very forgiving of skiving, Bolls. Besides, at least there was a bird."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Miss Hepplewhaite. Fifty-five if she was a day, tits resting on her belt." He chuckled at the memory.

Alex tried to protest through her giggles.

"Be fair. Young lads of seventeen, horny as rabbits, haven't seen anything in a skirt in weeks. Well, except the corporal from the Royal Scots on attachment and he weren't a looker."

"Oh, Gene," Alex was convulsed with laughter.

"You've no idea. We were considered right jammy bastards to be picked," he said.

"We?"

"Yeah, it was just the officer candidates."

Alex gaped at him for a moment.

"Officer candi... You were an officer?"

"Don't be daft, Bolly. What would I be doing as an officer?"

Alex thought about it. He certainly had the leadership qualities, but Gene Hunt in a typical officers' mess? No. Maybe not.

"No, my natural talents were thought best retained in the ranks," he continued. Alex spotted some unspoken revelation.

"What happened, Gene?" She prompted.

He looked slightly shifty, avoiding catching her eye.

"Wednesday evening, I tried copping a feel of Miss Hepplewhaite during the waltz. Oh-crack-double-oh Thursday morning, the CO decided I weren't officer material after all. Returned To Unit."

He caught her eye and they both laughed.

Gene supposed, in hindsight, that was when he started to slightly enjoy himself.

xxxx

"My God... you're Peter Bowles!"

A very tall, dark-haired man turned round at Alex's exclamation. He smiled.

"Yes," he drawled. "I know."

"Sorry. I'm so sorry. You must get that... I'm sorry" Alex was all embarrassment. Gene merely scowled. He was thoroughly fed up with wandering around making small talk to chinless wonders, and now this moustached lounge lizard who was too smooth for any normal bloke's peace of mind. How did Alex know him? Looked a bit familiar maybe. Gene wondered why he was associating this charmer with pyjamas. Just as long as Alex wasn't...

"It's quite all right. If only more beautiful women would accost me the world would be a very charming place," he twinkled.

Gene gritted his teeth and wondered what he could nick him for. He stared at the floor and willed the evening away.

"I used to love 'Manor Born' when I was a little girl," she started to say, then saw the familiar look of confusion dawning over the poor man's face. "I mean... that is, it's a shame it's finished. I really enjoyed it."

"Thank you; we enjoyed making it. Best to finish on a high, what? Nice to have met you," he added, not so sure being approached by this particular beautiful woman was such good news after all.

"C'mon, Bolls. Leave the poor bloke alone with your fruitcake nonsense," urged Gene, keen to get her away from this smarmy git.

"Yes. Yes, and you. Sorry again." Alex smiled apologetically as Gene started to tow her away. Then turned back again for a moment, plucking at Peter Bowles's sleeve and whispering. "Um... if they ask you to do a Christmas Special in about twenty-five years time? Please say no." She nodded emphatically and walked away, leaving a puzzled actor behind her.

"You know him then, Drake?" Gene asked.

"Oh come off it, Gene. Peter Bowles? He's reaching the height of his career. 'To the Manor Born'? 'The Irish RM'? " Alex hesitated; was that even made yet...? "'Only When I Laugh'?"

Gene still looked at her blankly.

"I'm aitch ay pee pee why, I'm aitch ay pee pee why, I know I am, I'm sure I am...?" She sang.

"Oh right. Got it. Blokes in a hospital. Funny. Sometimes." _Of course_, he thought, _that's why I thought of pyjamas. Thank fuck for that; thought I was going all Dorothy._

"Always wanted to meet him in his prime. Not that he's not still a good actor, but, well, you know."

Gene didn't know. He didn't have the first idea what she was talking about.

"Let's get a drink," he said.

xxxx

"Gene, just one more. Please."

"No."

"Just one? And then I promise you can go home. Please, Gene?"

"Bolls, my feet are bloody killing me."

Gene cast a jaundiced glance at the couples still gyrating on the dance floor. Once Alex had realised he actually _could_ dance, she'd been relentless and he never wanted to hear a dance band again in his life. The current brisk tune, whatever it was, must be at least half done already. If he agreed quickly he might only have to endure a couple of minutes before he could go home, take off these damn shoes and - please God - have a proper drink. He sighed.

"Come on then. Just this one."

Within seconds of stepping onto the dance floor, the music switched to a slow number.

"Oh for God's sake," groaned Gene. "Right. That's your lot."

"What?"

"I agreed to that dance. It's finished. We're done. Home time."

"You made a deal..." She started to remind him.

"Don't. Just don't say it, Drake. Remind me to never, _ever _make a deal with you ever again. You believe in getting every ounce of your pound of flesh, don't you?"

Alex grinned and moved closer to him.

"Stop grumbling, Gene. You're not kidding anyone."

He grunted capitulation and pulled her closer, hands on her arse. Alex reached round and carefully removed them back to her waist.

"Looking to be Returned To Unit again, Gene?" She asked with mock warning.

"Still dunno why I was drafted in the first place, Bolls," he protested, good humouredly.

"Limited manpower to choose from, Private Hunt. It was either you or Ray. You don't have a perm."

"Lance Bombardier, thank you very much."

"Oh really? Sounds impressive."

"Gunner," he explained.

She looked at him and wondered whether to say the thought that had just slid into her mind. Why not? After all, it wasn't real.

"Always with a large weapon then, Bombardier Hunt?"

"Be difficult to go anywhere without it, Bolls."

"Primed and ready, Gene?"

"You have no idea."

"Wanna bet?"

"Ah. Sorry."

"Gene?"

"Mmm."

"Gene!"

"Mmm? What?!"

"Home time, I think." That brisk note entered her voice again, just when things were getting... friendly. It was really starting to piss him off.

"Give me a minute."

Mentally Gene started naming City's midfield for the '70 League Cup final.

xxxx

Alex relaxed in the back of the cab and quietly hummed a few bars of "I could have danced all night". She smiled benignly at her own foolishness. This evening had been a definite upside to being stuck in 1982. Inwardly she gave her subconscious a round of applause for allowing it.

"Luigi's Italian Restaurant, " rasped Gene to the driver as he followed her in. "Just down from Fenchurch East police station."

"Right you are, guv. I know it. It'll be closed by now."

"So?"

"Nothing, mate. Only saying."

And then, thought Alex, there's the fly in the ointment. What to do about Gene. What indeed?

"Christ, I'll be glad to take these bloody shoes off," he groaned, stretching his legs.

Alex watched him. Long legs. Very long, long, legs. She abruptly turned to stare out of the cab window and avoided looking at him for the entire journey, her mind racing.

xxxx

You would have thought, after all he'd gone through this evening, that she might at least say two words to him. Gene folded his arms and glared at the advert on the folded seat in front of him; "Guys and Dolls" at the National Theatre. He immersed himself in an intense and irrational hatred for the faux neon lettering until journey's end. He couldn't stop that annoying little voice starting in on him again though.

_Not going to get in her knickers tonight then?_

_Doesn't look like it, no._

_Waste of time. Thought so._

_No. No, it was... We talked and stuff. Birds like that. It's groundwork for the final assault._

_Plonker._

_Shut up._

xxxx

"Here you are, mate." The driver wisely kept any banter to himself as he mutely counted out the change for Gene's fiver. He'd taken note of the steady silence between the two and reckoned their evening was going to end in one of two ways. Either a flaming row - and they looked the type - or a bit of how's your father.

"Surprised you waited for me, Drake," the bloke was saying.

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Thought you'd had all you wanted from me now?"

"_What?!_"

She was a looker all right, thought the cabbie. The flaming row looked like a dead cert, but he wouldn't be surprised if those two didn't manage both. He pulled away from the kerb, whistling to himself in amusement.

xxxx

"Of all the stupid, boorish, idiotic things..."

Alex stormed up the stairs to her flat, long skirt held up to avoid tripping over, hissing her damnation of Gene Hunt over her shoulder as she went.

"Stupid?" He roared, following her. "You got into a bloody..."

"Shhh. Gene, shhh. You'll wake Luigi."

"...into a bloody Trappist nunnery as soon as we were in the flaming cab," he hissed back. "What am I supposed to think?"

Alex reached the landing before her flat door, looked thoughtful and then turned to him, still poised on the stairs.

"I'm not even sure you can have a Trappist nunnery. D'you mean a vow of silence?"

"Does it bloody matter?!" His voice was rising again.

"Shhh."

He was looking up at her and she put her finger to his lips without a thought. They both stopped dead. Alex swallowed hard, withdrew her finger and rummaged for her door key.

"D'you want to come in for a drink before you go?" Alex addressed the door as she fiddled with the key, the false note in her voice jarring in her ears. _Why had she just asked him that? Stupid._

Gene hesitated. Of course he wanted to come in for a drink, but then what?

_She's just using you._

_So? Bits of me could really do with getting used. One bit in particular._

_You really think she won't tell you to bugger off before you get that far?_

Gene considered the likelihood of hearing that brisk, dismissive tone of voice again tonight. It already felt like he'd run through the City team sheet at least a dozen times. He sighed.

"Erm... No, I'd, er... better get home."_ Man City forward line up, 1974-1982 inclusive. Concentrate, Gene._

Thank God; she'd got the door open. She turned round brightly, standing in the doorway. _A quick goodnight and that was that. Didn't have to see him again until Monday._

"Right. Well, okay then."

"Yeah."

In a bid to avoid looking at his face, Alex's eyes dropped to his tie.

"You've still got your tie done up," she exclaimed, surprised. She looked up at his face. "I thought you said you couldn't breathe?"

"No, well... I dunno. Slipped my mind I suppose."

Before she could quite analyse why, Alex reached up and gently pulled at the tie until it was hanging loosely again. It seemed a million years since she'd tied it, standing on telephone directories in CID.

"Going to do the top button for me as well, Bolls?" He asked, softly.

Not caring to analyse exactly why, she did as she was told; focusing on the task with tremendous intensity, finding she couldn't meet his gaze again.

"Thanks."

"Y're welc'm," she gulped.

"Don't want to check the stubble count?" He asked, hopefully.

"Mmm?"

"Never mind." Gene turned to go, braced to tell his inner little voice exactly where to get off.

_Men. How is it they manage to play the "little boy lost" card so bloody well? _Alex thought. _It's not fair. _

_Oh sod it. It's not real anyway..._

"Gene?"

He turned back, trying not to look hopeful. He failed.

"Bolls?"

"C'm here."

Alex took hold of both ends of the tie and looked him firmly in the eye.

"There's hardly any worth counting yet. Shall we see what it's like in the morning?"

xxxx

Gene cleared his throat. He certainly wasn't clear on the details of the next bit; a haze of smell and sound and sensation. Lots of sensation. Lots. All of it very good indeed, thank you very much. At some point buttons had inevitably come into play, and that was when...

"Wait."

Gene stopped dead in the middle of helping Alex remove his jacket while still running a line of kisses down her neck. He had a definite idea where he wanted that line to go and didn't welcome the interruption.

"What?" He looked up.

"We can't do this."

"_What?!_ You have got to be joking me..."

"Gene, your outfit."

"What about it? Just going take it off. Not going be a problem in a minute..." He reached forward to nibble on a handy earlobe. She pushed him away.

"No. Gene, think for a minute."

Think? She wanted him to think? _Now?!_ Christ.

"You can't walk out of here tomorrow morning dressed in tails! You'll have to go and get your suit from the station."

Alex could all too easily imagine how quickly the word would fly round Fenchurch East if Gene was seen wearing tails from the night before. Two and two would make gossip at nineteen to the dozen. It didn't bear thinking about. Thinking about it, Gene winced at the prospect.

"Now?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. _When else?_

"But... it's... I... For chrissakes."

"Won't take you long."

_Too right. _Gene privately thought there was every chance he'd be breaking the land speed record between here and his office.

"Right. Okay," he sighed, shrugging the jacket back on again. "Be right back. Don't start without me."

"Very funny."

"One for the road?"

"No." She shooed him out of the door. "But I might get into something more comfortable," she whispered.

"If you have any stockings handy..."

"Go."

He went.

xxxx

It was a lovely clear night as he hurried over the road, past the parked Quattro and into the station. He was tempted to run, but sternly advised himself to preserve his energy.

_Nothing to say now, eh?_ He taunted the inner voice.

Silence.

Gene gave a satisfied smile, took the front steps two at a time, stormed through the doors and was brought up short by the sight of Viv behind the desk. He acted nonchalant.

"Skip."

"Guv."

"I... erm, I'm just getting my suit. From my office."

"Nice evening?"

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Nothing special. Be glad of an early night."

Viv glanced at the clock which showed it was nearer two in the morning than one.

"Uh-huh."

"How come you're on anyway? It's not your usual shift."

"Swapped with Butler so I could get next Friday off for the long weekend, guv."

"Oh? Right." Gene shifted awkwardly.

"I'll let you get on then, guv. Got to check the cells in a minute anyway."

"Right. Right. Good. I'll..." Gene sniffed decisively and headed for his office with relief, not seeing the look of amusement on Viv's face as he watched him go.

_You stupid twat. What was all that about?_

_I was being casual so as not to draw attention._

_You are kidding me._

_Shut up._

Gene started to gather up his suit, shirt and boots from where he'd left them dotted all over his office.

"Tie. Tie. Where's my sodding tie?" He muttered, wasting valuable seconds looking for it until he thought to check the pocket of his jacket.

That was everything. Except... damn, he'd need the suit bag and stuff to put the hire things back in. Gene looked helplessly at the jumble of clothing already in his arms and realised he'd have to be more organised. More valuable minutes ticked by until he had everything safely gathered in and could head for the door. _Here I come, Bolls. Ready or not. _As he approached the front desk he was only vaguely conscious of the noise of voices raised in strife.

"Don't you dare puke over my desk, " Viv's rich tones boomed over a hubbub of drunken revelers and their arresting officers.

Gene came through the doors even as someone lurched backwards in alarm, backing right into him. Gene dropped virtually everything he was carrying, only his precious boots escaping the fall.

"What the fuck...? Watch it!"

The clumsy lurcher side-stepped, revealing a very green-faced lad right in front of Gene.

"What the...?"

The young man just couldn't hold on any more. He'd felt a bit off in the police car; begged to be allowed to get to a loo. Or a bucket. The accumulated alcohol of the night just wasn't to be resisted any longer. One last agonised glance towards the blurry figure in front of him, and he proceeded to be thoroughly and heartily sick.

All over Gene and his boots.

And all over the hired suit.

"Shit!"

xxxx

"Guv, I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd..."

"Forget it, skip."

Gene was in the station bogs, dressed only in his underwear, trying to get the worst of the puke off his boots with a paper towel.

"Guv, are you sure you don't want the bleach...?"

"Sod it." Gene threw the sodden paper down in exasperation. He bundled up the hire suit jacket and trousers, sick and all, and thrust them at Viv.

"Stick these somewhere overnight, skip. I'll take them down the dry cleaners in the morning."

"Yes, guv."

Gene thrust his feet into his own trousers with relief. He pulled on the shirt and did up just enough buttons to keep it from flying about, didn't bother to tuck it in. Grabbed up his jacket; no point in putting that on either when Bolly'd soon be taking everything off again for him. Boots last of all. Right foot, in, stamp down the heel; left foot, in, stamp dow... _what the fuck was that...?!_

He removed the left boot with wary distaste and looked at his sock.

"Sodding, fucking, shitting _hell._"

Viv turned back from the door to look and winced. It seemed the bloke hadn't just puked _on_ Gene's boots.

"We've got some stuff behind the desk, guv," said Viv, helpfully. "It'll make it a bit wet though."

"Can't really get any worse though, can it, skip?"

Viv cast him a sympathetic look as he carried the hire suit away. Gene's shoulders sagged and he wondered just how much worse things _could_ get. Then he looked at his watch. Ten to three.

"Oh Christ."

Viv glanced up from behind the desk, where he was hunting for a cleaning fluid of some sort, to see Gene charge past, jacket flying in one hand, one foot booted and the other bare.

"Guv?"

"I'll sort it out tomorrow, skip," yelled the departing figure.

xxxx

Lungs bursting, left foot sore from its unaccustomed passage over street and pavement, Gene reached the door of Alex's flat. He gasped for breath and raised his hand to push it open.

It didn't move.

He pushed harder. He shoved at it urgently. The door was definitely closed.

_Shit._

Gene glowered at the intransigent door with deep loathing. It took no notice.

He knocked tentatively.

No answer.

He knocked harder, and then harder still. He was soon knocking as loudly as he dared.

"Bolls," he hissed. "It's me. Come on, open up. Bolly? I know I took a bit longer than expected but something came up." _In more ways than one. _"Bolls, please? Alex? You'll laugh when I tell you. Bolly?"

Curled up on her sofa on the other side of the door, Alex was deaf to it all. Worn out with the excitement of the evening, she was fast asleep.

xxxx

Gene shifted again. The darkness was lightening almost imperceptibly. There really wasn't any point in standing here, looking at a closed door, any longer. He sighed and considered the day ahead. Cleaning vomit out of his boot, taking a suit to the dry cleaners, explaining to the hire place why their suit wasn't back on the day it was supposed to be, and, to top it off, almost certainly a flaming row with Alex. Oh joy.

_Told you so._

_Is there any way to get you to just sod off?_

_Nope._

_Bollocks._

He sighed again, shrugged his jacket on and trudged down the stairs. The absence of boot on his left foot made him lurch and he hit the wall of the stairwell on the first step. He took no notice and headed for CID without a backwards glance.

The wafer thin wall of Alex's flat moved slightly at the impact. That, in turn, caused the door frame to also move very slightly. Periodically Luigi meant to have something done about the way that flat's door tended to stick in its frame, but what with one thing and another he'd yet to do so. When it stuck you had to catch it just right and it would open. Just like that.

Very slowly, unheeded behind Gene's inattentive back, the door swung open. Just like that.

**The End**


End file.
